


better stand (there's no turning back)

by freakedelic



Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke (2016), Detective Comics (Comics)
Genre: Belting, Cigarettes, Incest, M/M, Missing Scene, Parent-Child Incest, past child sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 02:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21330943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/pseuds/freakedelic
Summary: Grant runs away.It . . . doesn't go as planned.
Relationships: Grant Wilson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 52





	better stand (there's no turning back)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghosteevee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosteevee/gifts).

> you know that panel in rebirth when slade starts yanking his belt out, throws his cigarette away, and says "but let me give you something to remember me by?"  
yeah.

The cigarette flicked from Slade's hands falls in the snow. It melts the droplets around it before sputtering out, sending steam in the cold air. The puffs of Grant's breath curl up around his face. The air bites into his skin.

  
The look on Slade's face screams nothing but fangs to Grant. If Slade made sense he'd be a tiger in the snow, stalking Grant as he takes a few steps forwards. The belt swings out of its loops with a slick noise, curled dangerously in Slade's hand.

  
Grant stumbles back, boots cracking branches under his feet with noises as sharp as the cool air that bites into his skin. "Stay away - "  
Slade grabs his wrist. "Gonna give you something to remember me by, Grant." Grant jerks his hand away, pulling as hard as he can. He's grown up. He'd actually hit Slade. He can do this - but Slade is too strong. He's always seemed inhumanly strong.

  
"Get away from me!"

  
"No." Slade advances, in the snow, footprints big in vicious boots. Grant's adrenaline quickly warms him up.  
"I'll hit you again - "

  
Grant doubles over. The air pushes out of his lungs in hot bursts, spiraling like smoke in front of his face. Slade's face is calm, and Grant realizes he's been hit, gasping desperately for air like a man drowning. Slade's hand grabs his shoulder, pushes him around. Grant's face is pressed up against tree bark as he opens his mouth, spitting wood into the snow, struggling with his whole body against Slade.

  
This was supposed to be a new beginning. He was supposed to be able to fight back. Slade shouldn't be here.

  
"Fucking - asshole - " Grant curses at him. Slade growls in his ear, low and dangerous, like a wild animal.

  
"You're my own damn son." Grant doesn't see why that matters, why Slade cares, but he sure is declaring it in a voice like it does. Maybe Grant hates it. Hates that he's related to Slade. That Slade is his father, is the man who raised him.

  
"I wish I wasn't," Grant hisses back. That makes Slade stiffen, just ever so slightly, and Grant feels a vicious burst of pleasure seconds before Slade's hand hooks in his waistband and his pants are pulled down. The freezing air makes goosebumps rise on his skin, and makes Grant hiss with discomfort.

  
He struggles, violently, he does. Slade's hand presses against his neck, Grant clawing at the tree bark. He's freezing, all over. Snow reaches inside his boots, making them wet. He can't move because his pants are pooled around his knees. "Slade - Slade, I'm done, don't you dare - aaAaAH!"

  
It's Grant's fault for leaving his mouth open as the leather of the belt whistles through the freezing air. Grant bucks against the tree, trying to get away, but Slade's hand only tightens on the back of his neck.

  
"You never did learn any fucking respect," Slade murmurs. The belt comes down again.

  
"Stop it! Stop - I'm leaving, I'm -" This time he bites back the pain. Anyone could see them, this is public - and probably illegal - and humiliating. So humiliating. Grant's too old for this.

  
"You're not leaving until I say you're leaving," Slade insists. Grant tries struggling again but it feels like an anvil's pressing down on his back.

  
When did Slade get so strong?

  
The belt comes down hard enough to bruise. The noise of it seems to echo in Grant's mind. It hurts, but he's used to that as the leather crisscrosses. Grant knows how to take his punishment, and he finds himself taking this one, forcing himself to stand on shuddering legs and feel each strike shake through him. He's being punished, practically spanked by his father, all over again.

  
Slade has all the power.

  
It's not fucking fair.

  
It's all coming down, his fantasy of leaving and telling Slade what's what, and now running away is going to be literally running. Red stripes crisscross his ass and fury vibrates within him, the kind of fury built up by a childhood of being ignored or being hit, too deep to be brought to keel with simple pain.

  
"Good boy," Slade says. "Take it like a fucking man."

  
"Go to hell," Grant snarls. He can't think of anything more original. "Go fuck yourself, Slade, go burn in hell, go rot - "

  
He hisses again.

  
"You take it but you never learn, do you? You're my fucking son, Grant, and I'll be damned if I let you forget it."

  
Slade is readjusting. For something, Grant doesn't know, but there's a part of him that doesn't want to. That doesn't quite remember, can't quite think of, but he can't - can't let this happen -

  
He's spinning in the snow, tripping over himself as he tries to face Slade. He's freezing his balls off in the snow and he's more interesting in getting to Slade because Slade is the one who's hurting him. Who's making this happen. Grant no longer cares that leaves him exposed as he throws a clumsy punch. Slade dodges with barely a movement on his part. Frost seems to curl in the tips of his hair.

  
Slade is on him. He's warm, and Grant is so grateful for it initially that he leans into it before he remembers that it's Slade in his bad smelling leather jacket and ugly hair gel. Grant yells, pushes him off, but something slams against his mouth. Slade's hand.

  
Grant bites it. He tastes blood. Slade's hand doesn't move.

  
Why is Slade gagging him now? If he didn't have any shame when he was whipping Grant, why does he care - ?

  
Slade's hand is on Grant's thigh, pushing his pants further down. It's rough and calloused and vicious, and Grant swears he can feel the nails. This isn't what Slade is supposed to be doing. The fear comes sickly and hot in his gut, because this isn't normal, and Slade is -

  
Slade can't be -

  
Slade is jamming a knee between Grant's legs and he can't be, because he hasn't done this in years, not since Grant was too young to know how wrong it was. Grant is shaking his head before he knows what he's doing, eyes wide, and all he can see is the vicious, cruel look in Slade's eyes.

  
"Take it like a man." A hand pulls up Grant's thigh, up to Slade's waist, Grant trying to kick. He realizes that his clothes are slipping off of his boots, and he tries to crook his foot to keep them but it doesn't help. Grant tries to say something beyond the blood, beyond Slade's hand, but it comes out in saliva-strangled muffled tones.

  
Slade is hard.

  
Grant can feel it.

  
He feels the blood draining from his face, because this can't be happening, not here, not now, not to Grant. Slade had - touched him, he thinks, but never - he hadn't -  
not like this -

  
Slade's hand is only fumbling with the zipper. Grant has no idea where the belt went. He's shaking his head. Something is in his eyes. That can't be tears. Grant can't be crying. He's so damn cold. The ice freezes the wetness in scared-wide eyes. This is going to hurt, fuck, this is going to hurt so fucking badly.

  
Slade fumbles with his zipper like he can't wait to take Grant and it makes Grant sick, makes him struggle like a drowning man against the hand that holds him down. He tries to push Slade's forearm off of his body but it doesn't work, like steel, a safety bar on the world's worst rollercoaster.

  
Slade finishes fumbling with the zipper. Grant looks away. He doesn't want to see . . . his dad's dick. In front of him. Grant shuts his eyes. He wants to tell Slade that he's going to hell for this, that he's a bad, evil man, but he's still stifled by it. Slade still pushes back against the next round of fighting until all Grant's muscles ache from fighting back.

  
He can feel Slade's hard-on against his thigh. It's naked, rubbing against the insides of his thighs, coming ever closer to -

  
Slade won't fit -

  
"You want this fast or slow?" Slade drawls. The hand on Grant's mouth loosens.

  
"Pops - please - " Muffled.

  
"Fast or slow?"

  
There is no escape.

  
"Pops . . ."

  
"I'll do it quick, then, Grant."

  
Grant doesn't look him in the eyes. In blue eyes, eyes Grant doesn't have, and he's never been more grateful he takes after Ma in looks. Easily, Slade hikes up Grant's other leg, supporting them both with the sheer strength of his arms and the leg crooked under them.

  
Grant takes a breath of icy air. Slade spits in his hand.

  
Then he's screaming into Slade's other hand. The taste of blood fills his mouth. Something is pressing into him, splitting him at the seams. It's a terrible invasion, arching against the cold bark and feeling freezing air on his reddened cheeks. It hurts.

  
Grant didn't know he was capable of hurting this much.

  
"There we are," Slade murmurs, and frosty air curls up in steam around him. Grant can feel himself clenching around him, trying to close the hole in his body.

  
Slade starts to move. The cant of his hips is rough and vicious, dragging on the edges of Grant's body and slamming back in. There is blood. Grant can feel it leaking down the sides of his thighs and dripping red into the pale snow. Slade is panting into the air. Grant is pushed against the bark of the tree, every thrust tearing at his insides.

  
Grant's glad his humiliating sounds of pain are muffled against Slade's hand, blood dripping down his chin, body jerking. Slade said he would be quick and he is, pressing in and out of Grant with a speed Grant can't deal with.

  
It's all he can do to focus on the cold, to lay back and take it. This is his father inside him. Slade inside him. Pops. The man's cock moving in his body, leaving Grant gasping with the intensity of it.  
The cold cuts into him. Slade's cock shreds his insides. It's too big, it's Slade's, it's Slade's Slade's Slade's -

  
Every thrust he's pulled downwards onto Slade. He can feel nails digging into his thighs, bruising him. Slade's body presses against his already bruised ass. Saliva dribbles down his chin. This is too much, too there, every nerve in Grant's body raw and used and open.

  
Grant is sobbing without tears, the sounds choked by Slade's hand.

  
There is too much.

  
He hurts too much.

  
It goes on.

  
An eternity later Slade's hips snap shorter, harder, before burying all of him inside Grant, up against bloody thighs. There is sudden warmth inside Grant, strange because of the cold on his skin. It warms him from the inside, and he's so grateful for a scant few seconds before -

  
Slade -

  
His father -

  
Grant's eyes snap open.

  
Slade laughs softly, fondly.

  
Grant stares into bright blue eyes. Slade is panting, finished, fingers digging hard into Grant. Come leaks down Grant's thighs. Slade's. His father's. The same stuff that made him, Grant help but suppose.

  
The hand comes away from his mouth. Icy air fills his lungs. Saliva and blood are wiped off from Slade's hand onto his shirt. Grant gasps a half-sob, looking at Slade. Trying not to look down at where Slade is . . . inside him.

  
"Please," Grant whispers, "take it out."

  
Slade shrugs. He steps back, sliding out of him. Grant collapses all at once, thighs giving way under him, the cold snow on bare knees. He doesn't know where his pants are. Slade leaks out of him. Breath curls in front of him.

  
Slade is tucking himself back in his pants as Grant glowers up at his father. He feels - broken. Defeated, somehow.

  
"Don't forget this, son."

  
Slade's boots crunch in the snow, leaving prints the shadowed color of ash in their wake.

**Author's Note:**

> happy fucking BIRTHDAY eevee this fic is SO LATE!!! also it's about fuckin time i wrote some sladegrant bc i wuV THEM SMMM


End file.
